


Not A Sound

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Into the Storm and Rout [13]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Light BDSM, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Tough Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3170762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by some of Cole's banter: "Not just in bed. Sometimes it's up against the wall. Once on the war table."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Sound

He finds her at the war table.

Her candle's burnt down, casting her features into stark lines of light and shadow. Her bottom lip is between her teeth, nibbling; there's a furrow deep between her brows. He shuts the door behind him, and she jumps, eyes darting up to meet his.

"We had plans, asaaranda," he reminds her, showing the coil of rope around his hand.

She remembers quickly; the confusion melts into irritation and then—the slightest edge of fear. He can see the breath hitch in her chest. It's the good kind of fear: anticipatory.

"I'm sorry," she says. Her fingers release the piece she's holding; it drops to the table with a soft _clunk_. "I got caught up."

He moves around the table. She turns, shoulders always squared to him, but her eyes have fallen again. Not looking at the war table—not looking at anything. Just deference in her lowered lashes.

Fuck, she's _good_ at this. He revels in it every time.

"I'll forgive it," he says. She's close enough to touch now, and it would be a shame not to, so he runs a finger from her jaw down the line of her neck. She shivers, skin pebbling, leaning into his touch. "But since you're so fond of this table…"

He feels the silent gasp; her eyes dart to the door. "Here?"

"Why not?" He takes a step and moves her, too, squaring her body to the door. They're only an inch apart, his chest to her back, the only contact his hands on her shoulders—but he can already hear her uneven breath, see the way she bends toward him like a flower to the sun.

"What if someone...walks in?"

He chuckles, slides his fingers down her arms until he has her wrists in hand. He leans close to her ear, and automatically, she tips her head to the side, baring her neck to him.

"They'll walk back out," he tells her.

She lets him bind her—a firm, unyielding knot. It doesn't mean anything to someone who regularly shoots lightning from her fingers, of course; she could fry through her bonds with only a few seconds' work, but that doesn't matter. She won't. She won't, because she likes putting down that power for a while.

He rewards her compliance, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the place where her shoulder meets her neck. She shudders; when he lets go of her hands and cups her breasts through her shirt, he can feel her nipples through the fabric, stiff peaks pressing into his palms.

"Besides," he murmurs. "No one will come looking if you're very, very quiet."

* * *

She thinks it will be quick—that he talks big, but he won't linger with the risk of some guard hearing a scuffle and bursting in, blade bared. Or worse, _Cullen_. He tends to visit the war table in the middle of the night.

She should have known better.

He always drags it out; she doesn't think he knows how to have quick sex—or, at least, not with her. Once her hands are tied, his fingers span her throat, sneaking beneath her collar to loose the first clasp. He touches her pulse; how easily he could crush it, she thinks, and presses her thighs together to ease the throbbing ache there.

"Not a sound," he says—so low, so deep, that even though his lips are at her ear, she can feel the words better than hear them—and takes her earlobe between his teeth.

He knows she's good at being quiet. Trysts in the Circle were silent affairs, ears straining for the sound of approaching boots. She's never been anything _but_ quiet during sex. At least—until now. Until _him_. He knows how to touch her to make her lose herself, knows how to work away at her control until it's frayed and her throat aches with her moans.

He steadily works at the clasps on her shirt, but she hardly notices the slow undressing; her attention is preoccupied with his teeth, lips, and tongue, the delicate assault on her ear—and then the sensitive spot behind it—and then down the column of her neck, ending where it meets her shoulder. His teeth apply more pressure here, swift and hard before laving the spot with open-mouthed kisses. There's still space between his body and hers; his mouth, his hands, his arms are the only points of contact between them.

Her shirt gapes open to just beneath her breasts, baring her skin to the chilly air; the shoulders have been pulled down, binding her arms more tightly to her sides, behind her back. He lifts his attention from that _divine_ spot on her shoulder and props his chin there instead, scruff scraping the sensitive flesh. She shudders and shifts so that the abrasion repeats. He chuckles, indulging her, then hooks his fingers into her breastband and slides it down, exposing her flesh.

She tries to breathe steadily, but then his hands are cupping her, kneading, pulling—fingers harsh with her nipples, twisting—and she gives in, closing her eyes and arching her back to offer him more of her. The breath is short and sharp in her lungs, quiet but too loud in this high-ceilinged room, echoing—how often has she signed documents and reviewed reports and grown tired over this table? She will never be able to do so again without a blush burning into her cheeks, wonders how she will ever be able to look one of her advisors in the eye when they touch the surface that she's defiled—

He closes the gap between them, and she can feel him, hard, against her back. She bites her lip on a gasp at the contact; this is one of her favorite parts of the game, when they are finally touching, skin to skin.

"Good," he praises her. He slides fingers into her hair and curls his other hand around her hip, and then he bends her, lowering her to the table until her breasts are pressed to the cool surface. There's a marker indicating the dignitaries away in Antiva only an inch to her left.

The contact is gone, but he is not; his fingers slide into her breeches and shimmy them down until they pool on the floor. She has forgotten her fear of being discovered—forgotten everything except the burning desire for him to touch her.

His hands—Maker, he has the loveliest hands, calloused with thick fingers but still so _clever—_ pull her legs apart. She moves as he bids her. She has the warning of his scruff on her inner thigh, and then his breath is on her cunt, broad tongue licking her through her smalls, his horns brushing the backs of her legs.

She presses her lips together and breathes, hard, through her nose. He works at her with steady strokes, infinitely patient. She is already quivering, ready to come apart, his earlier ministrations to her breasts burning against the cool surface of the table, the spit-slick crook of her neck tingling in the still air.

His tongue slips beneath her smalls, teasing her clit directly, but with one finger, he taps twice on her thigh: _not yet_.

She grits her teeth, head swimming with the pleasure of it, nails digging crescents into her palms. He doesn't let up; he knows she can obey, even with every aborted wriggle of her hips, trying to achieve better contact with his tongue. His fingers find her opening, trace the wet flesh, plunge in. Her back arches, chest heaving in a silent cry. His fingers thrust, steady like the pressure of his tongue on her last nerve. _Not yet_ , he tells her with the pace of his hands. _Not yet_.

Just when she thinks she will burst—just when she considers the flick of her tongue against the roof of her mouth, a word she's never said except in practice—he leaves her bereft, withdrawing his ministrations. She throbs, struggles to remain still, not to arch toward him with her hips. Her breathing is heavy, now, hard and fast, but captured against the surface of the table. Her eyes are level with the Frostbacks; she presses her forehead to mountains and reaches, desperately, for her resolve.

He tugs her smalls down her legs—slowly, so cursedly slowly—and then his hands curl around her hips, digging in, and he's burying himself in her.

"Now," he says—quiet but firm—and thrusts again, jolting her into the table.

She lets go, choking down a sob when she comes; he works her through it, thrusting into her while she clenches around him.

When she's done, breath ragged against the map again, he presses a palm to the small of her back—just above where her hands are bound—and adjusts his grip on her hip. He moves differently, now, a languid roll that builds her back up from embers; when she's had enough time to recover, the hand on her back slides between her and the table instead, fingers slipping between her folds. He isn't teasing anymore. His hand is tight to the point of pain on her flesh, and his fingers rub mercilessly just above where they're joined.

Her back arches beneath him; hard as she tries, she cannot keep still, writhing back to meet him when he thrusts into her. Trapped between his fingers and his cock, throat tight from stifling her whimpers and moans, shoulders and arms aching from their bonds, she thinks she will simply _end_ —expire from the pleasure without release—

And then he jerks into her, his fingers press hard to her aching center, and she _does_ end.

When her eyes lazily crack open, he's already untying the length of rope around her wrists, tugging her shirt up to release her shoulders. His hands knead her flesh, rubbing away the ache left by the bonds.

"Not a sound." He chuckles. "I thought I had you once or twice."

"Mmm." She stretches, a smile curling her lips. "You almost did."

They work together to put her and the table back together: righting clothes, replacing markers. He gives her ass a fond pat, then, unexpectedly, draws her close. Her cheek to his chest, she can feel his heartbeat, even and strong. His arms might be a cage, but they set her free, too.

"You done with this?" he asks at last.

"No," she says, shooting a coy smile up at him.

He rolls his eye. "I meant the table."

"Oh. That. Yes."

"Good." He ducks down and knocks her over his shoulder; she gasps and then giggles, biting her lip on the sound. "I've got plans for you yet, and they involve considerably more noise."

She smacks his back with her open palm as he carries her to the door; she feels not unlike a sack of potatoes. "Someone will _see_."

He waves this off—not that she can see anything other than his ass, of course, and his legs, but she can feel his muscles carrying out the motion. "Josephine's not in her office. If anyone's in the main hall, they'll think you drank too much and I'm carrying you to bed. Nice of me, huh?"

She muffles her laugh in his back.

"That tickles," he reprimands her, but she can hear the smile in the words.

* * *

"Something's not right here."

Cullen picks up one of the war table pieces—the token representing the Chargers—and Leliana notices two things: the way he scowls suspiciously at the table, and the way the Inquisitor instantly turns red before ducking her head to hide the blush.

Leliana elbows Josephine, who glances at her and then across to the Inquisitor. Trevelyan fiddles with her notes, as though she hasn't heard what Cullen said, but her ears are clearly flushed.

"Perhaps it was the draft," Josephine suggests, trading a smile with Leliana.

"Or you've taken to walking in your sleep and moved it then," Leliana adds. Trevelyan glances up, spots Leliana's knowing smirk, and returns a sheepish grin that's both thankful and apologetic.

"I don't sleepwalk," Cullen mutters, returning the piece to the table. "Perhaps it _was_ the draft."

Somehow, he never does notice that he's the only one touching the pieces from then on.

**Author's Note:**

> Bull calls her _asaaranda_ \--"thunderstorm" in Qunlat--because she's a Storm mage.


End file.
